The Year of Confusion s-13

by John Maddox Roberts

“It’s been standing empty for quite a while,” he said. “Last I remember, it belonged to that tribune of the people, the one who died in Africa a while back, fighting for Caesar’s cause.”

  “Curio?” Hermes said.

  “That’s the one.”

  “Did he actually live there?” I asked him.

  “I don’t recall ever seeing him there.”

  “Has anybody lived there recently?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Not in months. There were some funny-looking people there a few months ago, foreigners of some sort, but they were only there for a little while, less than a month.”

  “What sort of foreigners?” Hermes asked.

  “Couldn’t say. Not Greeks, but that’s as much as I can tell you. They didn’t show themselves much and never talked to anyone here that I heard of.”

  “Have you seen anyone go in or out the last few days?” I inquired.

  “Not in the daytime,” he said. “As for the nights, I couldn’t say.”

  I thanked him and we walked away a few steps. “Curio again,” I said.

  “So this place belongs to Fulvia?” Hermes said.

  “I hope not. Let’s not assume so. It may have passed to someone else in his will. I hope that’s the case. I don’t want to have to haul Fulvia into court. She’d probably just have me killed, even if Antonius didn’t.”

  We conferred for a while with the neighbors to either side and across the street. Nobody had seen or heard anything. All remembered some “foreigners” living there a few months previously, something that might or might not be significant. Much of the Trans-Tiber district catered to the river trade and there were many resident foreigners living there. It would not be at all unusual for such people to rent a house while its owner was away. On the other hand, we had the odd foreigners the sailor had told us of. Was there a connection between the two and this house?

  The sun rose, the day grew warmer, and we headed back toward the City proper. Halfway across the bridge I sat on the coping and began to think. “What do we know about Curio?” I mused.

  “He was a politician like a hundred others,” Hermes said. “He was rowdier than most, good with crowds, and an extremely popular tribune of the plebs. For a little while he was more popular than Caesar or Pompey, but that’s common with tribunes. While they’re in office the people love them for their public works and the laws they whip up enthusiasm for. Usually their popularity fades as soon as they step down from office.”

  “That’s how I remember him. His father was Caesar’s deadly enemy, a strong supporter of Pompey and the aristocratic faction. For a while it looked like the younger Curio would follow the same path.”

  “But he ran up huge debts endearing himself to the voters,” Hermes said. “Not unlike others.” He grinned when he saw me wince. “But worse than most. Rumor had it that he was more than two and a half million denarii out of purse.”

  “So what made him come over to Caesar’s side? I remember that Caesar covered his debts, which was no small thing, but he trumped up some sort of charge to desert the optimates and join the populares.”

  “Maybe you should ask Sallustius.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t want to be any more obligated to him than I am already. Besides, it may be nothing. The man’s been dead for a couple of years now, fighting King Juba in Africa.”

  “Old Juba,” Hermes mused. “There was bad blood between him and Caesar, so I guess it was his way of getting revenge. What was his grudge? Didn’t Caesar insult him publicly?”

  I chuckled at the memory. “He certainly did. It was just before Caesar left for Spain. He was representing a client of his, a Numidian nobleman, in a case before the praetor peregrinus. The old king, Heimpsal, claimed this noble as a tributary, and the man disputed it and went to Caesar for aid. Heimpsal sent young Prince Juba to represent his side of the case. Caesar got a bit carried away in his defense and he grabbed Juba by the beard and dragged him all over the court.” I couldn’t help but laugh. “Of course the court found in favor of the king after such a display, but Caesar smuggled his client out to Spain with him.”

  “We’re used to rough-and-tumble in our courts,” Hermes noted, “but that sort of thing is a mortal insult to royalty.”

  “Well, Caesar was young then, but it’s no wonder Juba was just waiting to do him a bad turn. He went over to the aristocrats as soon as they set up shop in Africa.”

  “So a few days ago wasn’t the first time Caesar roughed up a foreign representative publicly.”

  I thought about that. “It was different. Caesar was a young politician on the make, not dictator of Rome. Juba was just another prince. We’ve never made much over foreign princes, since their fathers breed so many of them and nobody gets royal honors in Rome. Archelaus is an ambassador, and we always observe the diplomatic niceties. Usually, anyway.” I thought about it for a moment. “At any rate, Juba is dead.”

  “How did that happen?” Hermes wanted to know.

  I had to think about it. Those were eventful years, packed with incident. There were powerful personalities and men had died in peculiar ways.

  “Curio was victorious at first. He was a brilliant man, and he had a flair for military affairs as well as for politics, but he and his army were ambushed by one of Juba’s generals. Curio decided to die fighting rather than surrender. When Caesar showed up in Africa, Juba went to join Publius Scipio, but Scipio was defeated and Juba fled with Petreius. When their defeat was inevitable, they decided to fight in single combat. That way the loser would have an honorable death and the winner could commit suicide to avoid capture by Caesar. Petreius won and promptly killed himself.”

  Hermes shook his head. “I’ll never understand nobles and royalty.”

  “Personally, I’d have surrendered as soon as I knew Caesar was anywhere near. That’s probably why I’ll never be entrusted with command of an army.”

  “Well, the day is young. What next?”

  “I hate this,” I said.

  “Hate what?”

  “All this scurrying about, cornering people and asking questions, while all the time the killer or killers go calmly about their business, killing and torturing people as if I didn’t worry them at all. As if I didn’t even exist.”

  “It’s probably just as well,” he said. “If they were worried about you they’d probably kill you, too.”

  “They might yet. I would love to take some sort of direct action instead of merely reacting to what’s already been done.”

  “We can’t do a thing until we have a firm suspect,” Hermes pointed out.

  “I still haven’t looked over Archelaus’s staff on the via Aurelia,” I said. “It’s not far away and I want to arrive unannounced.”

  We walked along one of the roads that go northeast through the Trans-Tiber. It ended at the western end of the Cestian Bridge, which connects the Tiber Island to the west bank. This area housed a great many river bargemen, and we heard every accent and dialect to be found along the navigable length of the Tiber from Ostia almost to the Appenines.

  The via Aurelia begins at the Cestian Bridge. Like all our highways it was lined with tombs, though it wasn’t nearly as crowded with them as the far older via Appia. There were also some stately villas, most of them owned by equites who wanted to avoid the crowding of the City proper, especially in summer, while staying close to Rome and the exhilarating activity described by Callista. Aristocrats generally had their estates much farther from the walls.

  We paused and took a breather at a small but exquisite temple dedicated to Diana and a priest there told us that the embassy from Parthia resided at a villa no great distance away, and that we should take a small side-road flanked by two herms. The villa was at the end of the road.

  We found the road a short time later. The herms were draped with garlands of holly leaves, the greenest foliage to be found at that time of year. It pleased me to see these rustic devotions kept up. City people were getting more and more out
of touch with their rural roots. We passed between them with a nod of acknowledgement.

  The villa was old-fashioned, a rather modest house surrounded by a number of outbuildings, most of them converted into residences. There was some small commotion in the house as we approached and a well-dressed man emerged, holding a small, silver-topped staff. He looked Greek but dressed Roman. Another Bithynian, no doubt.

  “Ah, Senator, welcome,” he stammered. “We were not expecting so distinguished a visitor.”

  “You weren’t? Didn’t Archelaus send word to expect me?”

  “I’ve had no communication from across the river in a few days. I am Themistocles, steward to Archelaus. How may I be of service?”

  “I am on an investigation for the dictator,” I told him. “I need to inspect the personnel of your mission. Please be so good as to summon them.”

  Now he looked alarmed. “I had heard that my master’s interview with Caesar did not go well. Surely he will not take action against us?”

  “Nothing of the sort,” I assured him. “We are not barbarians. We respect embassies. Now, will you summon your people?”

  Relieved but mystified, he went to do my bidding. A short time later we had almost a hundred people lined up before the house. I immediately dismissed the women, the young boys and the older men to go about their duties. This left about fifty men of an age to be dangerous. Hermes and I began looking them over, paying special attention to their hands. As at the town residence, there were some tough-looking specimens, all of the same tribe as the guard I had questioned there.

  Toward the end of the line was a smaller man, dressed in a rough, dark-colored tunic. As we neared him, he looked about, his face whitening.

  “There’s a shifty one,” Hermes said. He left the man he had been questioning and made for the suspicious one. The servant whirled and dashed off with surprising alacrity.

  “Action at last!” Hermes said, grinning. He took off in pursuit, and I found myself wishing that I had someone to place a wager with. Hermes was an excellent runner and in top condition, but fear had lent the fleeing man the winged feet of Mercury. It would be a close thing.

  “Are you a betting man, Themistocles?”

  “Eh? I am sorry, Senator, what did you say?”

  “Never mind. Who is that man?”

  “Just one of the locals I hired to help in the stables. When we arrived here we required a few servants who knew both the area and the language. It was easier than buying slaves that we would have to sell when we leave. May I know what this is about?”

  “All in good time. How long has he been here?”

  “Not long, perhaps ten days. Is he wanted for some crime in Rome?”

  “If he wasn’t before, he is now,” I said. “If he’d just brazened it out I probably wouldn’t have suspected him. That’s what a guilty conscience will do to a man. He condemned himself without a word.”

  “I daresay,” Themistocles said, swallowing. “Will there be trouble over this?”

  “That remains to be seen. I believe I’ll go find my assistant. Maybe by now he’s run the rogue to ground. Don’t go anywhere.”

  I went off in the direction the two had gone. In moments I saw pursuer and pursued, made tiny by distance. The fleeing man leapt a low stone wall with great agility and Hermes cleared it moments later. All that money I spent sending him to the ludus was proving to be a sound investment. I didn’t hurry. In this sort of tortoise-and-hare situation, I preferred to play the tortoise.

  The hours are short in winter, and I spent the better part of one catching up with Hermes. He lay upon the ground, sweating abundantly and breathing heavily. I saw no wounds on him.

  “Shame on you, Hermes,” I said. “Letting an amateur like that get away from you.”

  “Amateur?” he gasped. “That man is a trained runner. I’m a trained fighter. There’s a difference.”

  I sat down beside him. “I don’t think that was our killer.”

  “I don’t think so either,” Hermes wheezed. “The killer would have made a fight of it.”

  “You’re right. Pride would have demanded it. Our murderer is a superlative craftsman in the art of homicide. This one is just a flunky.”

  “One of the torturers?” he hazarded.

  “He didn’t look that brutish to me. Who is another missing man in this business?”

  He thought about that for a while as he got his breathing under control. “The servant on the Tiber Island, the one who summoned all the astronomers to meet with Polasser, and then couldn’t be found.”

  “That may be it. He was already established here. As a free laborer, he wouldn’t need a pass to leave the estate. He just went down the via Aurelia to the Cestian Bridge, across to the island, did his job, then hurried back here while we were all gaping at Polasser’s body.”

  “Was the killer with him, do you think?” He tried to sit up, then fell back, groaning.

  “Unlikely. I suspect that his task was arranged by a go-between. If he could identify the assassin by sight, he would have been killed as soon as he was no longer useful.”

  This time he managed to sit. “He looked local.”

  “That’s what the steward said he was.”

  “So he’s not one of Cleopatra’s people.” He felt his abdomen gingerly.

  “Can you get up?” I said, rising myself.

  With my help, he managed to struggle to his feet and stay upright. He retched a bit, then steadied. “Let’s take it easy going back, all right?”

  So we ambled back to the villa, admiring the pleasant countryside.

  “So is Archelaus our main suspect now?” Hermes asked.

  “I don’t think so. Archelaus knew I was coming out here to inspect his staff, yet he didn’t warn the man to get out quickly. Apparently he had no idea he was harboring someone involved with the murders.”

  “But there has to be some connection,” Hermes protested. “Out of ten thousand hiding places near Rome, he picked the Parthian embassy.”

  “It bears thinking about,” I agreed.

  When we arrived at the villa, Themistocles had assembled the servants who had worked with the fugitive.

  “His name is Caius,” the steward said.

  “That’s not very imaginative,” I said. “It’s the most common of Roman names.”

  We questioned the servants but they all said the same thing, exactly what I suspected: They barely knew him. He did his work and kept to himself.

  Just like all the thousands of humble, near-invisible people all around us.

  11

  “You let him get away?” Julia said witheringly.

  “I didn’t let him get away,” I protested. “Hermes did.”

  “The man ran like a gazelle,” Hermes said defensively. “I was catching up to him at first, but he vaulted the field walls without slowing down a bit. I had to take them slower. In the end I ran out of wind, and he didn’t.” We were back at the house. It was late afternoon.

  Julia looked from one to the other of us as if at a pair of not-too-bright children. “And that doesn’t tell you something?”

  “Enlighten us,” I said, nettled.

  “It means he’s probably a highly trained athlete. Maybe even a professional. If so, he probably trains at a gymnasium. There are only a few in Rome. Check them all. Someone may know him.”

  “I was about to suggest the same thing,” I said. She just snorted disgustedly. “All right, what else are we missing? Does the torture and death of Postumius suggest anything to you?”

  She thought about that for a while. “Your friend Felix was right. It went on far too long just for information extraction. Whatever he knew, he must have spilled at the first threat. He had no sense of honor or loyalty, and what was anyone going to do to him that could be worse than what was coming? Someone was very, very displeased with Postumius.”

  “You have a gift for understatement,” I commended, “but where does that leave us? Men like Postumius always have e
nemies. People resent being cheated, and sometimes they get carried away in their eagerness for revenge. It went far beyond mere punishment, but a touchy sense of honor causes some people to lose their sense of proportion.”

  “That suggests patrician involvement,” Julia said. “Plebeians rarely have so extreme a sense of honor.”

  “Back to Fulvia again,” Hermes said. “She may be shameless and scandalous, but you just can’t get more patrician.”

  “That is true,” Julia concurred, “and she is just the sort to enjoy such a thing. She probably made use of a pair of hot pliers herself.”

  “Let’s not make unwarranted assumptions,” I cautioned. “Just because you dislike Fulvia is no reason to place her in that room, wielding torture instruments with style and panache.”

  “You are hopelessly naive. The woman is evil.”

  “What of that? I’ve known a great many evil women in this city.”

  “So you have,” she said ominously. It had been the wrong thing to say. She rose. “I am going to the evening ceremony at the Temple of Vesta. After that, I am joining Servilia and some other ladies for dinner and gossip. I’ll see if I can get anything useful from Servilia.”

  “Excellent,” I said, happy for the change of subject. “If you see Brutus while you’re there, see if you can pump him about this transmigration of souls stuff. Something about what he’s been saying doesn’t add up.”

  “I’ll do that. This has been a long day for you two. Don’t go out carousing. Get to bed early and look into the gymnasiums first thing in the morning.” She went out, followed by two of her serving girls.

  “Between Julia and her uncle,” I said, “throwing in this mysterious assassin and the conspiracy that seems to surround him, I’m at a loss to know who terrifies me more.”

  The next morning we set out to make the rounds of the gymnasiums. As Julia had said, Rome had only a few at the time. Recently the First Citizen has tried to revive interest in Greek-style athletics, but back then Roman men usually exercised at the baths, or went to the Field of Mars for military exercises like drilling and javelin-throwing or to the ludus for sword practice. The gymnasiums were patronized mainly by Greeks or people from Greek-influenced parts of the world.